


Twitterpated: Chapter 4.5

by S_Faith



Series: Twitterpatery [2]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 17:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: The missing smutty bit at the end of Chapter 4.





	Twitterpated: Chapter 4.5

**Author's Note:**

> Forbidden from Fanfiction dot net…
> 
> Because it was a crap day, and I'm feeling in the mood.

_(Begins at the end of Chapter 4.)_

Once inside the bedroom, once he set her down, and after she lit the room by flicking on a small amber-glowing lamp, they wasted no time in getting one another out of their respective clothing. The activity, while titillating, was more of a hindrance than a help; her fingers fumbled over his buttons and belt almost as much as his own did grasping the elastic at the waist of her bottoms. The reward, however, was more than worth it. Pulling her top up and over her head revealed just how lovely her body was.

He placed his hands on her waist, stroking her skin, then brought them around to her back; it amazed him that she thought (per her frequent self-deprecating tweets) she was in any way overweight (and therefore unattractive). Drinking in her curves with his eyes, there was nothing, in his opinion, that didn't belong. He wrapped his arms about her, reached up for the clasp, and was befuddled when he did not feel one.

She laughed lightly. "It's in the front," she whispered into his ear.

"Do they do that to drive men mad?" he said, more of a low growl than intended, as his fingers came about intending to undo it.

"Hold on," she said. He froze. "You still have a shirt on, and a vest to boot. We need a bit of equality here."

It was true that while she had undone every fastened button, he still wore his shirt. He let her go, then stripped off the shirt; he had momentarily forgotten about the cufflinks, and before he remembered, one of them went flying off, knocking over a picture frame on her bureau before landing somewhere. She began to chuckle as he unfastened the other then shed the shirt. As he did, she began to pull the vest up and out of his trousers, tugged it off.

With her focus on his clothing he all but forgot about the bra clasp, and he didn't care. As she stood back to look at him, she traced a finger over his pectorals in appreciation. Then she traced down to his abdomen, to the waist, to the button on his trousers, which she undid along with the fly, slipping his trousers down.

"Now who has the clothing advantage?" he managed; she still wore bra, bottoms, and (presumably) pants.

She smiled. "You don't really care, do you?"

"No." He took her in his arms again, began to kiss her as she grazed her fingers around his waist at the elastic band of his boxers. They then slipped under and came back towards her, diving down low in the front. He groaned as her fingers brushed against him. "You're killing me," he whispered.

"Good," she whispered back, then pulled down his boxers.

In the blink of an eye he had her bottoms down and off, teasing along the elastic of her pants before he pulled her towards the bed, sitting down, standing her before him, hands on her waist before tugging the pants down. He then leaned forward, placed his lips against her stomach, then dipped his tongue out against her navel. He felt her legs go unsteady as she moaned.

"Good," he repeated in a throaty voice, bringing his hands around to cup her arse, then kissed her navel again in a similar manner. He felt her hands in his hair, felt her lean forward into the kiss. He then lifted his head, reared back a little, reached up to undo that pesky front clasp, then pulled the bra away to reveal what was, to him, a gloriously formed, perfect pair of breasts.

He shifted his head, then cupped one of her breasts in order to take the hard tip between his lips, then gently grazed it with his teeth and tongue. She gasped. He moved to the other one, and this time was less gentle. A little more eager. 

"Oh God," she said breathlessly, then added, "your socks." 

It pulled him from the moment. "What?" he asked crisply.

"Sorry," she said, then surprised him by straddling his lap. She took his face between her hands and gave him a quick kiss. "Can't shag with socks on. Just can't."

He smiled, then leaned to the side and tugged one sock off by grasping it with a thumb and finger, then leaned the other way to do the same with the other. He noted she was already barefoot, though it wouldn't have bothered him to take hers off, too.

"Better?" he asked, sitting upright again.

"Mm, yes," she said, then dove upon him with a kiss so forceful it knocked him back against the mattress. Her weight against him—particularly against his arousal—elicited a groan, though it was not an unpleasant sensation.

"Bridget," he managed; he did not want to get too lost in ravishing her as he'd wanted to do for so long without first putting the safeguard in place, as it were.

"Right," she said, seemingly picking up on his very thoughts. She rolled away and reached for her nightstand; he moved too, righting himself in the proper orientation on the bed and pushing the duvet and sheets back. She turned back with target in hand, and after a moment of careful application, she slipped into place beside him. "Now. Where were we?"

"I believe… here." He placed a hand on her stomach, then leaned forward to kiss her between her breasts; he then picked up exactly where he had left off, cupping the second one, taking the tip between his lips, caressing it with his tongue before grazing his teeth along the sensitive skin. She exhaled sharply. He grasped her hip, then began to kiss a trail up to between her collarbones, against the thudding pulse on her neck, under her lifted chin, under her ear, before claiming her lips again.

As he turned and pulled her up against him, she moaned into his mouth. He wasn't quite ready to cut right to the chase, though; instead, he drew his hand along her skin, caressed her breast again, moving down over her side to her waist and hip to her thigh. He traced his fingers down over the crease of her hip before moving between her legs; her response, reaction, was to make a soft little sound of utter pleasure. As he stroked again and again, back and forth and pressing deeper down, her breathing went unsteady; his own became a bit more ragged, and his own arousal a bit more pressing in pleasuring her.

She called his name, then again a bit more urgently, and finally, in a demanding voice, "I can't take much more, Mark… please… pleeeeease… _I beg you_ …"

He had not, to the best of his recollection, ever had a lover beg in this way. He stopped and shifted, moved between her legs and atop her. Her heavy lids lifted to look up at him as she brought her arms up around him, raking her nails over his back.

He drew one of her knees up, then the other, and while leaning on his forearm, he slowly moved forward, guiding himself into her, still engaging her eyes; as they connected, there was that perfect moment when her lids fell, her chin jutted upwards, and an "Oh" issued from her lips, before he dropped down to kiss her then drive quickly forward. At this she offered another, much stronger "Oh!" as her nails dug a little more firmly into his back, urging him forward.

It was at that moment where the nebulous plan he had formed in thinking about sleeping with her for the first time—to go slow, to savour every caress, and to explore every inch of her body—abandoned him. It was replaced with wild, frenzied, almost animalistic desire. He thrust again with a little more force, and again several more times, rocking the whole bed with his motion, bringing forth such sounds of pleasure at such volume he was sure (in that tiny part of his mind that was still thinking of such trivialities) their sounds of lovemaking would reach all the way down in the pub.

His climax built so rapidly, was so strong, that his cry as it happened was not just of pleasure but also of a little surprise. The way she called out his name told him she was very close to coming, too, and, despite very nearly expending every ounce of energy reserve he possessed, he willed himself to carry on to satisfy her. Judging from the strength of her cry, the feeling of wave after wave contracting around him, the way she then sucked in a loud, sudden breath before her arms dropped to her side, he ventured to guess she was more than satisfied. 

Carefully he moved from atop her, breathing as roughly and as irregularly as she was. He rolled onto his back, pulling her over with him; she seemed as limp as a rag doll, but had a beatific look on her lovely face.

"Oh, my," she breathed at last, running her fingers across his chest in a way very similar to what had started the whole romp in the first place. "That was…" She trailed off, but her meaning was clear. 

"Yes," he said throatily, then kissed her on her dampened temple, reached up to stroke her cheek. "Absolutely."

She laughed a little. "I didn't say anything."

"Whatever you're feeling," he managed, feeling the pull of slumber, "I feel the same way."

_The end (of Chapter 4.5)._


End file.
